


I dunno how to act or if I should be leavin'

by sadieb798



Series: I Really Like You [1]
Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alcohol, Awkward Flirting, Bad Flirting, Bisexual Peter Parker, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Discussion of masturbation, First Time Blow Jobs, Flirting, Fluff, Getting to Know Each Other, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Nicknames, No Blow Jobs actually happen, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Not Deadpool 2 (Movie) Compliant, One Night Stands, Peter doesn't know how to ask for things, Peter is 24, Pop Culture, Ridiculous, Secret Identity, Sorry Not Sorry, Spideypool - Freeform, Stan Lee Cameo, Swearing, THE BOXES - Freeform, Teasing, Truth or Dare, Wade Wilson Breaking the Fourth Wall, older Peter Parker, still based on Holland Peter though, the author started out with good intentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 15:44:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15027875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadieb798/pseuds/sadieb798
Summary: A sudden weight clamps down on Peter’s right shoulder - a hand, he realizes when the fingers give his arm a brief squeeze - that immediately makes him tense.Why didn’t my spider-sense go off?Peter wonders as he turns to look -And comes face-to-face with Deadpool.





	I dunno how to act or if I should be leavin'

**Author's Note:**

> I like that I set out to write a fic about a one night stand and instead of sex, feelings happen. Only me. *shakes fists* ONE DAY I _WILL_ WRITE SEX! I WILL!!
> 
> All the love in the world to [venvephe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venvephe/pseuds/venvephe) and [neverthelessthesun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverthelessthesun/pseuds/neverthelessthesun) for being the best cheerleaders and betas a girl could ask for.
> 
> I would also like to give a shout-out to McGuinness and Kelly for doing the lord's work. Truly. Thank you.

_Sister Margaret’s Home for Wayward Girls._

Peter checks the address MJ texted him again and then stares back up at the building. _This is the place_ , he thinks with a frown. It's a large dilapidated concrete gray structure, so dirty and grimy that he’s sure even rain wouldn’t touch it. _Why_ MJ would know about this place is beyond Peter, especially since it's in one of the seedier part of Queens.

_Whelp,_ he sighs, _MJ’s never steered me wrong before._ He grips the door handle and pushes inside, and it’s _packed_ . If Peter thought the _outside_ was seedy, it is _nothing_ compared to the inside. It’s mostly dark, with some lights dangling down from the ceiling, a few pool tables that have just enough room to wiggle around them, and all the walls are decorated with framed pictures of different groups of people and newspaper clippings. Peter has a feeling that if the lights were fully turned on, cockroaches would scatter. He doesn’t wanna _think_ about what it would look like under a blacklight.

As he weaves through the crowd, he can’t believe a place like this actually exists outside of the movies, and he doesn’t need his spider-sense to tell him he doesn’t wanna look too closely at the clientele of the bar. He doesn’t wanna know _what_ the questionable stains are on imposing frowny guy’s gray shirt, or _why_ such a gorgeous blond is draped all over a tanned older man with slicked-back gray hair, who is wearing aviators _indoors_ and twirling a mustache that looks more suited to the sixties. Weirdly enough, he looks a little familiar to Peter - but he doesn’t stop to chat.

Instead, he approaches the bar and slides onto a barstool, slipping his hands out of the pockets of the Spider-Man hoodie that Deadpool had given him a few months ago. He never thought he’d actually be wearing something that _Deadpool_ had given him, but he can’t help it, the hoodie’s comfortable. He wears it more often than he probably should - it’s in no way a substitute for the costume Tony made him, but it reminds Peter of his first costume and that makes him feel oddly safer.

_“What? It’s our two year anniversary, Webs!”_ Deadpool had said when Peter had unwrapped his gift and just stared at him. Peter can’t help the huff of laughter at the memory.

“ID, kiddo,” the bartender, a tall man with blond frizzy hair and glasses, tells him. He doesn’t even glance up at Peter; his entire focus is on cleaning a shot glass with a what _must_ have been a white dishcloth once upon a time, but now is an indeterminable color.

“Not a kid,” Peter grumbles, but pulls out his license. The bartender takes it and studies the card before giving a decisive nod.

“What’ll it be?” he asks as he hands the card back. He throws the dishcloth over his shoulder and puts the clean glass under the bartop.

“Ah,” Peter replies dumbly, his mind going blank.

The bartender lifts an eyebrow. “Pretty sure we don’t have ‘ah’ on tap.”

Peter frowns, and he can feel his cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “Look, could you get me whatever’s cheapest, please?”

The bartender shakes his head with a wry smile. “College student?” he asks, pity in his eyes.

Peter crosses his arms and rests them on the polished bartop. “Yup,” he mumbles. “Broke one, at that.”

A sudden weight clamps down on Peter’s right shoulder - a hand, he realizes when the fingers give his arm a brief squeeze - that immediately makes him tense. _Why didn’t my spider-sense go off?_ Peter wonders as he turns to look -

And comes face-to-face with Deadpool.

“Aw, you’re breaking my heart!” the merc says, his gravelly voice unmistakable. Peter has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from yelping in surprise. “A college student _not_ at a kegster? What has the world come to?! Weasel, get this fine collegiate a gin and tonic! We’re gonna set him up right!”

“What the hell kind of place do you think this is, ‘Pool?” Weasel asks, giving him a flat look. “A club in Monte Carlo?”

“Alright, fine, make it a rum and coke,” Wade sighs, “and my usual.” Without another word, Weasel turns his back to them and prepares their drinks.

“Er, thanks,” Peter starts, twisting to face his companion. Wade’s sitting on the barstool next to him, his black-clad fingers and red leather arms resting against the wood of the bar, looking surprisingly at home with his katanas strapped to his back and mask over his face. Like all things with the merc, it’s odd, but Peter can’t help but roll with it. “Mr. Deadpool,” he finishes with a wince. _So lame._

“Please,” Wade says, waving a careless hand. “Mister Deadpool is my _dad -_ call me Deadpool.”

“Um, okay...Deadpool,” Peter replies, while he quietly panics. He can feel sweat gathering at the collar of his hoodie, and his heart’s beating in double time. “Listen, I appreciate it, but you didn’t have to do that.” He watches the lines of Wade’s expressive red mask shift, and Peter can tell that underneath, he’s raising an eyebrow. “Not that I’m not grateful! But I don’t know how to pay you back.”

_Plus, I don't_ want _to pay you back,_ Peter thinks. _I've never hidden my dislike for Deadpool as Spider-Man before, but it’s definitely gonna be weird talking to him as Peter Parker. For one thing, I won’t be able to hide my facial expressions from him and that’s gonna be a challenge._

“No need,” Wade says, shaking his head.

Weasel sets down Peter’s rum and coke and then places a curvy glass filled with a thick, strawberry red-liquid in front of Deadpool. Weasel completes the look by placing an obnoxiously pink umbrella against the rim, a blue straw beside it, and pushing both drinks towards Peter and Wade.

Peter is smart enough not to say anything about the daiquiri, but he does thank Weasel for his drink.

“All I ask is that you enjoy this on behalf of broke college students everywhere,” Wade adds as he starts rolling the bottom of his mask up until it’s just under his nose. He raises his glass, the pinkness of it bright despite the unflattering bar light. “To broke college students,” he toasts, smiling.

Peter can’t help the smirk that spreads across his face. “To broke college students,” he echoes, clinking his rum and coke against Wade’s glass and taking a sip.

There’s a brief moment of silence as they both drink, the rum burning a path down Peter’s throat while the coke makes a sweet companion.

“So Webs,” starts Wade suddenly, and Peter coughs. He hunches over the bar, hand on his chest while the alcohol burns his nose. There’s a thumping against his back, and Peter’s face flushes.

“What?” he manages to gasp out between coughs, looking up at Wade. The white eyes of the mask are wide with worry, lines appearing on Wade’s forehead and Peter can tell his eyebrows are raised. His uncovered mouth is downturned, but Peter barely notices the scarred and puckered skin around his chapped lips.

“Your hoodie,” Wade points out, his black finger hovering over Peter’s red sleeve. “Webs, Spidey, that friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Fan of his?”

“Uh, yeah,” Peter replies, flushing. He clears his throat, using a finger to loosen the collar around his neck. “Who doesn’t like Spidey?”

“Tons of people!” Wade says with far more enthusiasm than Peter thinks his off-hand comment deserves. Then Wade starts ticking them off his fingers: “ _The Daily Bugle,_ the Chameleon, that Vulture guy, _several_ animal-themed baddies, at _least_ two generations of Goblins, a knockoff Goblin...” As Wade keeps listing them, Peter starts to notice a tinge of darkness creeping into his voice.

“Not a fan of the haters?” Peter asks.

“I’m not a fan of _anyone_ who hates on my friends,” Wade answers candidly, white eyes meeting Peter’s.

“You’re friends with Spider-Man?” he asks, surprised. Peter’s always considered Deadpool as not technically a coworker so much as a...pest, so to hear that the famed merc-with-a-mouth thinks of him that way is more than a little shocking.

“Eh,” Wade says, the mask allowing him to show his wince, and he gives Peter a hand-wavy gesture. “It’s more like a mentor-mentee, _don’t-unalive-people-Wade_ , role model relationship. But fingers crossed, he answers my fanmail!” Wade adds excitedly, eyes wide with glee.

He turns back to his drink, his lips wrapping around the blue straw and slurping. Peter looks back at his own drink, fingers sliding up and down the cool glass idly. _I guess I never really thought Deadpool was serious about changing,_ he muses, _I thought us partnering up was just a joke to him_.

“So,” Wade says, pulling Peter back from his thoughts. The red-clad jokester has an elbow on the bar, and his chin propped in his hand. He looks up at Peter with interest and his lips are upturned in something that can only be described as a _saucy_ smirk. “Besides college, being broke, and chatting up mercenaries in seedy, disreputable bars - ”

“Excuse you, we are _plenty_ reputable,” Weasel interrupts, annoyed. Wade looks up at him, surprised disdain in Peter's opinion: eyebrows raised and lips in a tight line. Weasel deflates. “Just, you know, not to anyone above biker and mercenary level.”

“Anywho,” Wade starts again, shaking his head and furrowing his brow as Weasel wanders back towards the other end of the bar. “What else do you do, pretty college boy? Besides the whole... everything I just said two paragraphs ago?”

“Um,” Peter falters, his mind stuck on _what_ , before he actually manages to absorb the question. “I'm a, uh...journalist?”

Wade frowns and tilts his head to the side. “Is that an answer or a question?”

Peter shrugs helplessly. “Both?” He winces.

“Pardon me for saying this, but you don’t seem to know what you’re about, here, college boy,” Wade says, as delicately as Peter’s ever seen him be, “and I graduated from the school of hard knocks.”

Peter groans, and just for a second he forgets that he’s talking to _Deadpool -_ a person he _knows -_ instead of a complete stranger, and lowers his inner walls. “It’s just that…” he huffs. “I take pictures of Spider-Man for _The Bugle_ , but it’s so hard to work there because I don’t feel like I’m being taken seriously. I _hate_ that they’re the only ones who’ll take my pictures, but - ”

“Pause the rambling for a sec,” Wade cuts in, lifting a hand to derail Peter from what he was saying. He blinks up at his drinking companion, whose lips form an angry line, brows drawn together. “You’re saying you work for that motherhugger - _seriously -_ J. Jonah Jameson? The asshat that prints all that shit about my good ol’ friend Spidey?”

“Uh,” Peter says eloquently, and blinks. “Yes?”

Immediately Wade rises from his seat, startling Peter, and rolls the bottom of his mask down again. “Whelp, if you’ll excuse me,” Wade begins, “you just stay here, enjoy the booze. I have to go and give an _exclusive interview_ to an icky newspaperman. J. Jonah has been on my list for a long time now, so don’t you worry your pretty little head, friend: this shit’s for _free -”_

“No!” Peter doesn’t shout, but it’s a close thing. He latches a hand onto the merc’s left wrist, pinning it to the bar. “Please don’t. If you do, I’ll be out of a job, and I won’t be able to feed my college loan sharks - and then I’ll _really_ have no money to buy alcohol with, much less live off of.”

Wade’s frozen in place, his chin tilted down and eyes staring at something on the bar.

Peter follows his line of sight. He immediately flushes when at the end of the rainbow, he finds his own pale hand resting on top of Wade’s red leather-clad forearm. Peter makes to draw his hand back, but like a snake striking, Wade’s right hand shoots out and lands on top of Peter’s, keeping it in place.

“Well, we can’t have those poor loan sharks starving,” Wade murmurs softly with a chuckle, his thumb brushing against Peter’s knuckles. Before Peter can process what just happened, Wade draws his hand away with a sigh. “Well, alright then. Jameson lives another day to feed a baby college boy.”

Peter breaks out into a grin, something light bubbling up in his chest. “Thank you,” he squeezes Wade’s arm before pulling away.

But not too far.

“Let’s start over,” Wade suggests, sitting back down next to Peter. He picks up his strawberry daiquiri, turns away completely; his back facing him. Then he whirls around, his white eyes wide, and the expression on his mask looks open and friendly.

“Hi, I’m Wade Wilson!” he greets cheerfully, sticking out a hand. “I’m an ex-mercenary that used to unalive people for a living, but now I’m trying out the whole superhero gig and I go by the totally cool alias, Deadpool!”

Peter can’t help the smile that spreads across his face, the absolute ridiculousness of the situation amusing him despite everything. He takes the merc’s hand, the black leather gloves rough against his palm. It doesn’t escape his notice that Wade’s eyes become crescents, and the lines around his masked mouth deepening.

“Hey,” Peter replies, “I’m Peter Parker. I’m a broke college student that swings around after Spider-Man and takes his pictures for not very much money.”

“Good ta meetcha, Petey-boy!” Wade responds, giving Peter’s hand a good firm shake before suddenly tightening his grip. “Say, do you wanna skip this awkwardness and get right to the good stuff?”

“Um,” Peter feels his forehead furrowing. “Sure? I guess?”

“Then have I got a fun game for you!”

* * *

“- and _that_ is why _Cowboy Bebop_ is the greatest anime of all time!” Peter finishes, digging his index finger into the wood bartop for emphasis.

“And that is where I _respectfully_ disagree with you, sir!” Wade responds, uncovered mouth set in a grimace. He points a finger at Peter, his other four clutching his third daiquiri. “Don’t get me wrong, I _love_ Spike - like, can’t-even-tell-you-how-many-times-I’ve-played-with-my-unicorn-horn-to-him love - but you _can’t_ ignore the cultural impact Sailor Moon has had!”

“Did you just admit you masturbate to an anime character?” Peter asks, scrunching his nose in distaste as he sips his second drink - a gin and tonic this time.

“Oh- _hooooooo,”_ Wade hollers, slamming his frothy drink down onto the bar and gripping the edge with his fingertips to tilt dangerously back on his barstool. It has Peter only a _little_ concerned, until the mouthy merc flies forward to lean against the bar again. “Doest thou mocketh me? Like _you_ didn’t discover your dick because of Jessica Rabbit - ”

“Nuh-uh,” Peter shakes his head, laughing. “Actually - ”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Wade cuts in, his eyes wide and horrified. “How cisnormative of me! My bad, Petey-pie - ”

“No, no,” Peter interrupts, waving him off, his brain momentarily dizzy at the carousel-like conversation they’re having. “You got it right: I’m cis male.”

“Oh, whew,” Wade replies, wiping the imaginary sweat off his mask’s forehead. “But still, take a lesson kiddos: don't assume genders.”

“But uh,” Peter starts, rubbing the nape of his neck, _and_ wow _when did it get so hot in here?_ “Um, it was more _Captain America_ from that one cartoon than it was Jessica Rabbit, so - ”

“Oh, _Petey!”_ Wade exclaims, wrapping his arms around Peter’s mid-section, and pulls him into a tight hug. “Tiger, you just hit every box on my bingo square! You are just so - _yes, I_ know _, White!_ I wanna keep him too, Yellow!!”

“Uh,” Peter mumbles, his cheek pressed against Wade's and the leather mask feels soft against his skin.

“Ack, but you're right,” Wade responds to no one, pulling away from Peter, and that…that makes him miss the body heat. He blinks. _Huh._ “We have a game to finish. My turn: truth or dare?”

“Er,” Peter sips his drink, stalling. “Truth.”

“Scaredy-cat,” the merc accuses, and Peter smiles innocently. Wade hums thoughtfully as he wraps his tongue around the straw to his daiquiri and sips at his drink.

Peter can’t help but watch, fascinated, as the perfect pink organ twists around the thin plastic tube, wet and enticing. After a moment or two where the only sounds Peter hears are his own heartbeat and the soft, faraway background noise of the bar, he realizes Wade asked his question.

“Sorry,” he blinks up at him, but the merc’s watching him smugly, like he knows _exactly_ what Peter is thinking, and - _whoo boy,_ does that send a wave of arousal southwards and make his face heat.

“What did you say?” he asks, his voice coming out dry and croaky even to his ears.

The shifting mask allows Peter to see Wade’s eyebrow raise. “I said, have you ever had a blow job?”

Peter can feel a blush explode across his cheeks. “Ah.”

He turns away and gulps down a mouthful of his drink, then lowers the glass as he tries to stomp down the churning of his stomach. _It’s a normal reaction,_ he reasons with himself, _I’d react this way even if it were_ Ned _asking. It doesn't matter that it’s_ Deadpool, _a guy I hate - whose morals are practically nonexistent, who disgusts me to no end and annoys me to the point where I wanna web my own head just to get his voice out of my ear. But also makes me laugh so hard, I’m always worried I’m gonna fall out of the sky -_

Peter blinks. _Wow, my brain picked the wrong time to try to figure this stuff out._

Wade leans into him, pulling Peter out of his confusing thoughts. Wade’s head rests on Peter's shoulder with a smile stretching from ear to ear. "Come on, Petey,” he wheedles, “no need to be shy! We both just admitted we polish the bat to cartoon characters - that makes us friends for _life!"_

If anything, that just makes the blush on Peter's face _worse_ ; he's sure he looks like a cherry right now. “Uh. I, I don't…” he fingers the short black straw of his drink, and clears his throat. He can't help but mumble, “I don't like telling everyone about my sex life.”

"Gasp! I'm not everyone!” Wade yells, pulling away from Peter as if scandalized. “It's just me and Weasel! And Weasel doesn't even wanna _know_ about that!”

“For real,” Weasel agrees from the bar tap, two steps away from Peter and Wade, as he fills a beer. “I don't even wanna know about _Wade's_ sex life, and he's my best friend. That shit’s just nasty.” Wade waves at Weasel as though this proves his point.

“Um,” Peter gulps, the heat in his face getting worse. He looks away briefly before meeting Wade’s eyes again. “....No?”

Wade raises an eyebrow. “To the question or to sharing?” he asks.

Peter’s blush intensifies, and he snaps his gaze away from Wade; he can actually _feel_ himself breaking out into a sweat. “The first,” he whispers into his drink.

There’s a pause that feels pointed, and after a few moments goes by, Peter finally looks up.

Wade is _staring_ at him, the white eyepieces of his mask inscrutable, and Peter suddenly feels like he’s being weighed. Before too long, a feral grin breaks out across Wade's face, and beneath the mask, he's giving Peter a suggestive eyebrow waggle.

“Wanna change that?” he asks, and that...that sounds downright _filthy_ in his low, gravelly voice.

Peter's cheeks burst into flames, and he doesn't need a mirror to know he's bright red. “Ah, um,” he stammers, tongue-tied, feeling like he’s caught on _fire,_ but the words won’t come. There’s a big mental block; his brain repeatedly flashes _Does Not Compute_ , and the words he comes up with are piling up on the tip of his tongue like there’s a roadblock.

“Hey,” Wade whispers suddenly, and it’s enough to yank Peter’s attention away from his inner turmoil.

He blinks up at his drinking buddy, and Wade’s expression has gone all serious even through the mask, and the flirtatiousness escapes like air from a balloon. Wade puts his hand gently over Peter’s, slow enough to telegraph his movements and that, if Peter wanted to, he could pull away. He doesn’t, and Wade’s hand feels...nice - comfortable and grounding on top of his.

“If you don't want this, just say so,” Wade tells him. “I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable, Petey, and I’ll have fun either way.”

Peter blinks, but gives a curt nod and sooner than he wants, Wade's hand pulls away leaving Peter's fingers cold.

“Besides,” Wade adds, looking at him with a shit-eating smirk. “Consent is one of my kinks.”

It would be so _easy_ to let this moment go, to act like it didn't happen and have the evening progress in this direction. But Peter knows what lies that way. He's been on enough unsuccessful dates to know how it goes: Wade will be respectful of Peter's boundaries - that much he’s sure of - they’ll say goodbye with the promise to hang out that neither of them will fulfill, and the next time Peter sees him, it's gonna be to fight whoever the supervillain of the month is, and there'll be plenty of flirting for Spidey, but none for Peter.

_Maybe I’m lonely,_ he muses. _I gotta admit, it_ is _nice having some kind of romantic attention directed at_ me _for once instead of at Spidey -_ everyone _wants to be with Spidey. But Wade’s been down right inappropriate towards Spider-Man since day one, but here - now - with me? Like night and day._ It’s not a new side of Wade, not really, but it’s like looking at a building, an everyday thing, from a bird’s eye view instead of worm’s, and seeing something beautiful.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Peter taps into the well of courage he uses to face down the Green Goblin on a near weekly basis, turns to Wade and asks, “Is that so?”

Wade's eyebrows shoot up in surprise and he faces Peter. “Yes?” He asks, more than says. “Fair warning: asking me about my kinks is _kinda_ one of my kinks.”

"Ask me again later on,” Peter tells him.

This time, he can identify the surprise in Wade’s eyes by the way they gradually grow into dinner plates. Peter fights the blush blooming again on his cheeks, and stares determinedly at the merc.

“Mind repeating that, jailbait?” Wade asks as he uses a gloved pinkie to clean out his masked ear. “Cuz I coulda sworn you said- ”

“I’m _twenty-four,_ not fourteen,” Peter says point-blank. “And I said - I meant...About the blowjob - ask me again. Later.”

Wade blinks at him before looking away, but Peter can see the small smile on the bottom half of his unmasked face, and he feels oddly proud that he’s the one who put it there.

“Your turn, bubble butt,” Wade says.

* * *

“Gimme that!” Wade yells, snatching Peter’s gin and tonic away from him.

“Hey!” Peter cries indignantly, reaching for the glass, but gets blocked by Wade’s elbow. “I dared you to drink someone _else’s_ drink, not mine!”

“Tough fuzzy balls, sweetums, you weren’t specific enough!” Wade declares before guzzling it down while Peter glares at him. “Holy Jack Kirby!” the merc gasps before putting the drink down and sliding it away. “It tastes like a sunrise had sex with a feather duster!”

“It's an _acquired_ taste,” Peter sasses, picking his drink back up and cradling the small amount left protectively against his chest. Wade scoffs, wiping his mouth with his red leather sleeve. “Truth or dare.”

“Hmmmmmm,” Wade hums, a finger pressed against his lips as he thinks about it. “Truth!”

“Are there any people you regret unaliving?” Peter asks, resting his cheek against his knuckles.

Wade goes unnaturally still before taking a sip of the third daiquiri he’s been nursing since they started. “Yes,” he says quietly, almost too quietly for Peter to hear.

Peter waits, but there’s no answer forthcoming. “Yes?” he prompts.

“Nuh-uh, sugar-pie, honey-bunch,” Wade says, wagging a finger dangerously close to Peter’s nose. “You didn’t ask for names or explanations.”

“That’s not fair!” Peter pouts, and he notices the white eyes of Wade’s mask track his lips. A shiver runs down his spine, and Peter can’t lie to himself: it’s fucking _hot._

“Life’s not fair, Sarah! Not everyone gets to dance with a sparkly David Bowie in a drug-induced hallucination while wearing an extra poofy dress!” Wade cackles. Just like that, the seriousness of the moment is shrugged off dramatically, like he’s Obi-Wan and wearing a cloak. “Truth or dare, Parker?”

“Dare,” Peter declares, jutting his chin out daringly. Wade’s lips stretch into a dangerous grin, and Peter suddenly knows what a canary feels like.

“I dare you to drink whatever I ask Weasel to make you.”

The request makes Peter groan, reminding him of the soda fountain concoctions of his childhood. “Eugh,” he grimaces, feeling his face scrunch up. “Fine.”

With a grin, Wade waves Weasel over, and when the bartender stops in front of him, he leans over the bar and whispers into his friend's ear. Weasel pulls away, his face a grimace, before leaving to the other side of the bar. Peter glares at Wade, but he just smiles serenely back at him.

After a moment, Weasel comes back, setting down a shot glass with a creamy tan liquid. Then he takes out a can of Reddi-Whip and creates a perfect dollop of whipped cream on top. It actually looks delicious and innocent, but Peter’s leery. With that final flourish, Weasel pushes the drink towards him.

Peter picks up the shot-glass, stands up next to Wade, and he doesn’t think he imagines the silence that falls over the rest of the bar. He holds it out to the troublemaking merc, whose entire focus seems to be resting on Peter.

“To your health,” he states before downing the whole thing in one easy go. The drink goes down smooth; so smooth it feels like velvet. He was right about the creaminess, but there's a burn of alcohol that closely follows.

“Pah!” he breathes, smacking his sticky lips before slamming the shot-glass bottoms-up onto the bartop. He turns, smiling triumphantly at Wade, who looks like he can catch flies with his mouth dropped open.

_The bar is quiet,_ Peter suddenly realizes with a growing frown. He looks around, and not only has the bar fallen completely silent, but every eye in the place is fixed on them too.

“Congratulations, Wade,” Weasel says dryly, holding out his hands to the empty glass like he’s announcing the winner of a competition and presenting them their prize. “You finally got someone in this bar to accept your blowjob.”

Peter’s eyes practically pop out of their sockets and he whirls around to face Wade. Meanwhile, the entire bar erupts into laughter, and there are cheers and wolf-whistles and jokes flying at them, but Peter blocks it all out; his entire focus on Wade. The merc is completely speechless, and Peter would be amazed by that except that he also looks nervous: the lines of the mask’s forehead are wrinkled, scrunched together, his puckered skin looks pale and his lips are a thin line. His eyes are just staring.

That look makes a familiar sensation go through Peter. It’s like every time he throws himself off a building and into a free-fall that lasts forever before he shoots out a web: his heart thudding against his chest, wind whipping past his ears, buildings blurring together, and his stomach swooping -

It’s the best feeling in the world.

Against his better judgement, he steps closer towards Wade, whose eyes are tracking him like a hunter.

“Truth or dare, Wade,” Peter murmurs, standing close enough to touch but doesn’t. “Winner take all.”

“Dare,” Wade replies immediately, his white eyes not leaving Peter's.

* * *

Peter’s back slams against the brick wall of the alley; pain erupts along his shoulder blades and sides, nearly killing the arousal pooling in his gut.

“Ow,” he hisses, wincing as he tries to ease the pressure from his back. _Jesus, I’m gonna have scratches tomorrow._ Somehow that thought makes the embers in Peter’s groin flare brighter.

Wade presses his body flush against Peter’s until they’re chest-to-chest. He kept the bottom half of his mask rolled up, and Peter can see the suave smile curling his lips. The merc’s black-clad hands run up and down Peter’s wiry arms, he uses a boot to gently kick Peter’s left sneaker to the side, pointedly spreading his feet apart.

Wade’s smile gets closer to Peter’s flushed face, and with a roll of his body, Wade’s hips make contact with Peter’s, sending an electric current up his spine. He has to close his eyes against the sensation because _Jesus fucking Christ, that feels_ good. He feels Wade finger-dance idly up his arms until they’re holding his hands spread-eagled against the brick wall, wrapping around his wrists.

“I’ve been waiting to do this all night,” Wade purrs, his breath a hot puff against Peter’s neck. The words send a new wave of heat down Peter’s spine, and he feels a fresh blush spread across his cheeks.

“Yeah?” he asks breathily. Somehow the thought of Wade wanting to do this to him _all night_ is heady, and makes his brain feel fuzzy and unfocused.

“Yeah,” Wade confirms, releasing one of Peter’s hands to reach back behind him -

And pull out a gun.

Peter blinks blearily before his brain goes into full panic mode and his body goes rigid. “Um,” he swallows, eyes focused on the barrel pointed right at his face. “Wade?”

“That’s _Deadpool_ to you, buster,” Wade replies, his eyebrows pulled down and his eyes glaring daggers. When Peter glances down, Wade’s lips are in a snarl, revealing bright white teeth clenched together. Without moving the gun, Wade lets go of Peter’s other hand to tug the bottom of his mask down, and Peter’s freed hands automatically rise up. “Only people who are acquainted with my _entire_ face get to call me that!”

_That’s fair,_ Peter can’t help but think. “Um,” he says instead, wrestling down the instinct to _run._ “Okay. Deadpool. So. What’s with the gun, then?”

“Well, see here’s the thing,” Deadpool starts leisurely - and it _is_ Deadpool now, Peter realizes, because the Wade in the bar was tame, whereas Deadpool lets his callousness run wild.

The merc starts his lecture like he’s about to explain why the sky is blue, or why dogs are superior to cats, or, _hopefully,_ why he’s pointing a gun at Peter’s face in a dark alley.

“I’m trying out this whole _we don’t shoot first, ask questions later, Deadpool_ thing that I learned from Spidey. Call it following orders, call it wanting to please Daddy - call it whatever you want, but it’s kinda working for me.

“Anyway, so when I got to _Sister Margaret’s_ , I noticed that a certain someone with a cute backside - that’s you, Petey,” he uses the hand not holding the gun to gently boop Peter’s nose; it’s such a sharp contrast to the rough treatment that Peter blinks in surprise, “wearing a hoodie that’s the same one I gave my good ol’ buddy Spider-Man!

_“Cool!_ the boxes and I thought! Only when I get closer, I find out that not only is it the same hoodie I gave my good ol’ buddy Spider-Man, but it is the _exact_ same one I gave my good ol’ buddy Spider-Man _.”_

Deadpool’s voice, which had been light and cheerful at the beginning of his explanation, goes dangerously dark and as sharp as one of his katanas towards the end. Peter can feel his face progressively turn whiter than a sheet, and he swears his stomach drops at his feet.

“H-how,” he gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and Deadpool’s head tilts to the side in expectation. “How do you know it’s Spidey’s?”

“Psh!” Deadpool scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Does anyone ever ask Jessica Fletcher how _she_ knows how a murderer did it? She just _knows!”_

“All the time,” Peter responds, and somehow his disbelief for the merc comes back despite the situation. “ _Everyone_ asks her how she knows _all the time_ \- that’s kinda the big reveal part of the show!”

“Well, see, that’s what happens when we fall asleep, Yellow!” Deadpool exclaims, his free hand coming up to grip the hoodie’s collar, the barrel of the gun coming closer to Peter’s nose and making his heart beat faster. “We miss the whole _whodunit_ part of the whodunit!”

“Okay, so how _do_ you know then?” asks Peter, keeping his eyes on him.

“Elementary!” Deadpool says haughtily. Then his grip on the hoodie collar loosens until he’s pulling the front away from Peter’s stomach, making it flat. “Plus, I'd recognize that blood-juice stain shaped like Ryan Reynolds anywhere.”

“Blood?!” Peter practically screeches. Deadpool releases his grip on the hoodie and Peter tugs down the front with both hands to look at the oddly shaped brown stain over his heart that’s been there since the day he got it. “You said it was bean burrito juice!”

“Yeah, well I _lied,”_ Deadpool explains, like it’s obvious, “because you don't tell Spidey when he's wearing people juice!”

“Oh my fucking god, Wade!” Peter exclaims, putting both his hands over his face and fighting back the urge to groan.

“Now, the way I see it,” Deadpool continues, dark tone bleeding back into his voice. Peter removes his hands and opens his eyes to the now-familiar muzzle of the gun. He raises his hands to ear-level. “You have three options. Option numero uno: you tell me how you got this hoodie, I take said hoodie from you, and we both go on our separate ways. Numero Two: I shoot you in your frankly un- _fucking_ -fairly cute face, take that hoodie off your corpse, toss that carcass of yours into a dumpster, and mourn the loss of your adorable ass for all eternity.”

Peter waits, but no third option is forthcoming. Instead Deadpool’s just staring at him, waiting. He blinks, and can feel his eyebrows scrunching together.

“That’s only two,” Peter points out with a frown, “what’s the third one?”

“Dunno,” Deadpool replies with a careless shrug. “The writer’s trying to come up with Option Three, just give her a minute.”

There’s a very long pause between them.

“Okay?” Peter replies finally, but it comes out more a question than an answer.

Another long pause follows. Deadpool looks away briefly, expectantly, the gun still held high. Peter waits, his back pressed uncomfortably against the rough brick wall, and feet flat on the ground.

“Nope, sorry,” Deadpool says at last, shaking his head and meeting Peter’s eyes again. “She’s decided there’s only two options now, so make your choice Petey-pie.”

Peter blinks, flicks his eyes down to the nozzle and back to the merc’s face. “Okay,” he agrees, hands still in the air.

Deadpool waits, eyes staring right at him and the usual expressive mask eerily blank.

“Okay,” Peter repeats. “I’ll go with Option One for four, Alex.”

“Good choice!” Deadpool praises, nodding in approval as he lowers the gun slightly. Peter starts to put his hands at his sides. “Also, a _Jeopardy!_ reference! Nice! Can’t go wrong on a classic.”

Peter takes a deep breath, as he goes through his options. Each web of lies shoots out through his mind like the Rapidfire Web setting on his shooters. _I could say I found it in a dumpster, or at a Goodwill,_ but he immediately shuts those lines down. _Apart from this, Wade’s been good to me all night, and he doesn’t deserve a lie._

“ _You_ gave me the hoodie,” he tells him, staring right into Wade’s eyes.

“Nope, wrong answer,” Deadpool growls, and the gun’s a centimeter away from Peter's face again, and the merc’s black-gloved fist returns to wrap around his collar. Peter’s hands immediately go back into the air. “Unless you wanna be another New York statistic that your Aunt Mildred warns you about, start talking,” he presses the barrel of the gun deeper into the fat of Peter’s cheek. “Where’d you get the digs?”

“I’m telling the truth, Wade,” Peter says, his voice steady and calm, with his hands up. “I’m Spider-Man.”

Deadpool’s eyes narrow and he tilts his head to the side, calculating. “Prove it.”

Peter expels a heavy breath. He bends his right forearm, where his Spider-Man watch rests and checks the time. _Just past two_. “Okay,” he says with a shrug.

With practiced ease, Peter twists his wrist clockwise and before he’s even completed the movement, his watch transforms into the web shooter. The wristband elongates and the mechanical trigger flips out until it sits in the palm of his hand.

“Fair warning: this is gonna hurt,” Peter warns, slowly bringing his arm up.

“Wh - ” Wade manages to get out before Peter webs him in the face.

Wade's head knocks back with the force of Peter's shot, his balance unsteady as the web blocks out the white lenses and black ovals of his mask.

“What the hell?!” Wade exclaims, his arms flailing as he tries to pull the web off his face. Peter takes the merc's moment of distraction to crawl backwards up the wall, the harsh brick pricking his glove-free hands. Once he's high enough over Wade's head, he times a half-second before Wade moves his arm, then kicks the gun out of his hands. It lands towards the end of the alley with a clatter.

From there, Peter only has to kick out a foot to send Wade flying through the air, until he hits the other building with a crack. His body slides down the wall and falls to the ground in a heap.

“Fucking Mother Hubbard,” Wade groans, shifting his legs. “Owie.”

Peter quickly pushes off the brick, lands on his feet gracefully and goes to Wade’s side. “Sorry,” he apologizes with a wince, his hands hovering over the merc’s arms.

“What for, Shakira?” asks Wade, with what sounds like a grimace, “It’s obvious those hips of yours don’t lie.”

“No, you totally deserved that,” Peter agrees, resting a hand on the wall next to him. Wade starts gently tearing the webbing from his eyes, unsuccessfully as most of it sticks, but manages to free his eyes. “But I’m still sorry I hurt you.”

“Aw, what, lil’ ol’ me?” Wade asks, and the white eyes of his mask flutter as he pulls the webbing away. Peter doesn’t fight back the corner of his lips as they tick up into an amused smile. “That’s really sweet of you, Spidey-cakes. It’s fine, though,” he grunts, shifting in place. “I’ll be all better in a minute. Ribs heal quickly. Skulls on the other hand...”

“Wait, I cracked your _skull?!”_ Peter screeches. He holds up his hands, watching as Wade readjusts himself against the wall. “Hold on, let me get you comfortable - ” Peter knee-shuffles closer to Wade.

“No, it’s really better if you don’t - ” he starts as Peter puts a hand on his shoulder and moves him slightly. “Ow!!” he yells, his voice bouncing off the building walls and back at them in the alley. “Or that’s fine too!”

“Sorry,” Peter repeats, pulling away. He leans back and starts to pull off his hoodie. His blush reddens when he sees Wade’s white eyes grow at the sight. Once he managed to get it off and untangled, he folds it up and places it carefully behind Wade’s head. Peter shifts his legs until they’re out from under him, and stretches them out, facing the brick wall he was pressed up against a minute ago.

“Whelp,” he starts, looking around the alley, and crossing his arms over his chest in an attempt to keep himself warm. “Not really a good place to play ‘I Spy’.”

Wade hums in agreement, and from the corner of his eye he sees the merc start rolling up his webbed mask to his nose. Then he leans his head against Peter’s hoodie, and something warm flutters in his stomach at seeing him use it. "You know, this wasn't how I saw our first date going, Spidey."

Peter frowns, turning to look at Wade. The merc looks comfortable: legs sprawled out, hands folded in his lap, head tilted up at the hazy orange-tinted cobalt sky. But the thing that makes Peter blink twice is that Wade’s lips are pulled up in a smile - a _content_ smile; like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

“I thought you were only interested to find out how I stole my own hoodie?” Peter asks, brushing aside his brown bangs.

"Not you in the _bar_ , baby boy,” Wade says, tipping his head to look at him, and his smile grows. Peter’s heart stutters at the nickname; the merc only uses it for Peter’s alter ego, so it’s a little jarring to hear it now. “Though the first time I saw your face I just about _cried_ , but I meant my date with Spidey."

“Oh,” Peter murmurs, his spirits falling. _Should’ve known._ His fingernails dig into his arms slightly before releasing, then he looks away. “Right.”

“No no no no no, what’s happening? What’re you doing?” Wade asks, shifting and a chorus of _ow_ s follow that movement. Peter tenses. “Why do you look sad? Back up, White, you fucker.”

“Huh?” asks Peter, looking back at Wade, brows pulling together. Wade's mouth is turned down in a frown, and his forehead pinched.

“Not you, Petey-pie, I’m talking to the boxes.”

Peter’s eyebrows scrunch more. “The boxes?”

“This is _not_ the time to go into detail, gumdrop,” Wade tells him, “we have to have _something_ for the sequel. Short answer: voices in my head.”

“Oh,” Peter whispers. _That explains so_ much _,_ he thinks as past encounters with the merc swing through his head.

“Yeah, not really important right now - _anyway,”_ Wade continues, and his chapped lips turn down into a frown as he stares at Peter. “Why the sad-face? I just paid you a huge compliment, P! There’s no need to pull the sad card.”

Peter draws back. “Compliment? You just told me about your ideal date with _Spidey.”_

Wade’s head tilts to the side, eyes squinting. “Yeah? How is that a problem?” then just as the words leave his mouth, his eyes grow to the size of golfballs.

“Oh, wait is Spidey like...a _separate_ identity?” he asks in a whisper, leaning closer to Peter, and wincing with pain at the movement. “Does he even _know_ you know? Gasp! Is this a Captain Underpants-type of situation?! Are _you_ the bad personality?!”

“What? No, that’s not how it _works_ \- look,” Peter sputters, and shakes his head. He turns to face Wade fully, who is watching him patiently. Peter meets his eyes with a sigh. “Yes, _I’m_ Spider-Man - have been since I was fifteen years old. And in the suit, you would not _believe_ how many people hit on me - _daily_ \- like, you doing it isn’t even the tip of the iceberg, Wade.”

“ _Excuse_ you?” Wade exclaims, hand flying to his chest, offended. “That’s just - ! That is _insulting!_ I _pride_ myself on my fresh pick-up lines, sir! You think those just grow on _trees?!”_

“Yeah, well,” Peter says with a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “The thing is, you aren’t the only one who thinks Spidey’s hot.”

Silence falls in the space between them. Off in the distance, Peter can hear the rushing of cars, a cat yowling in the night and faint laughter from the bar. He sighs, drawing his legs up until he’s got his knees pressed to his chest, and folds his arms over them.

“Hey,” Wade murmurs, and his shoulder presses against Peter’s. Despite his better judgement, he turns his head slightly to look at Wade - and his eyes widen.

_Wade’s taken his entire mask off._

Peter can’t help but stare, breath caught in his throat as his eyes track all over his companion’s face. The sores and puckered skin around Wade’s mouth that he’s gotten used to over the course of the night are the least of it. Pockmarks dot his nose like freckles, scars along his cheeks, his eyebrows singed off, healing burns on his bald head and temples. _There’s just so_ much _to look at,_ Peter can’t help thinking. Finally, he meets Wade’s eyes, and has to blink twice.

“You have really pretty eyes,” Peter says without thinking. But before he can be embarrassed by his mouth, those brown beauties blink rapidly before flicking away, and a weird blush forms on Wade’s skin. _Huh._

“Thanks, but, uh,” Wade clears his throat. “Just so you know, when I said I would mourn your adorable ass after I capped you, I meant it. And that was before I even _knew_ you were Spidey.”

“You were also pointing a _gun_ at my _face,”_ Peter points out, but Wade starts waving a hand.

“Semantics,” he says with an eyeroll.

Peter opens his mouth to argue the point, when Wade’s eyes meet his again. Without even consulting him, Peter’s mouth decides to drop open. The merc’s dark eyelashes are so long, brushing along his ravaged cheek, that Peter’s surprised he hasn’t been swept away by the gust. The deep, rich brown of Wade’s eyes are so intense, so _serious_ , that Peter almost wishes Wade had the mask on so he could have a barrier between himself and the eyes. _Maybe then they wouldn’t be quite as strong._

“But for the record,” Wade continues, eyes arresting, “all the stuff I said, all the feelings that we had - I would have hit on you again, even if you didn’t have the hoodie.”

Peter’s breath leaves his lungs on an exhale, and he blinks. “Oh,” he sighs, closing his eyes.

“Yeah,” Wade agrees, keeping his shoulder pressed against Peter's. “I kinda have feelings for you, Petey. And the fact that you are also Spider-Man? Bonus points.”

“So when you said date - ” Peter starts, a blush forming on his cheeks.

“There ya go,” Wade says, giving a small encouraging nod.

“ - you mean you wanted to date _me,”_ Peter finishes, his cheeks glowing.

“Bingo,” whispers Wade with a pleased smile. He tips his head back against the hoodie. “Bout time you got it - I was getting _blue balls_ , Petey-kins!”

Peter huffs out a laugh, rolling his eyes. He gently bumps Wade’s shoulder, and can feel the merc chuckle beside him. “How’re you feeling?”

Wade gives a weary sigh, and Peter winces in sympathy; healing sucks, even with a regenerative healing factor. “Sore, rib feels better. Jury’s out on my skull though. Critics will tell you it’s been _years_ since it was used - wait, what, no, bad Petey, what are you doing?” he whines, his brown eyes following Peter as he starts to get onto his feet.

“Stop that,” Peter tells him, standing up straight. “I can’t leave my date out here to heal out in the cold, it’s freezing!” He turns around to face Wade, when suddenly his feet give out from underneath him and the ground’s rushing up -

But at the last minute, strong arms wrap around his waist and shoulders, saving him from kissing the ground. Frowning, he blinks his eyes up and finds Wade’s beautiful brown eyes staring down at him. The merc’s face is soft with affection, and Peter feels his heart swooping in his ribcage at the look; if this were a comic book, Peter’s sure hearts would be dancing over Wade’s head. _Maybe mine too_ , he amends.

“Oh, I’m sorry did _I_ do that?” Wade asks, shocked, pulling Peter closer into his chest. “How very very clumsy you are. Not that I’m complaining: you're quite the catch.”

Peter sputters a laugh, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. He feels so light and free, it’s amazing. “Shut up,” he replies, smiling, putting a clenched hand over Wade’s heart and giving him a very very light shove.

“Wow,” Wade says, squeezing Peter’s waist pointedly. “So much for spider strength, huh? So no spider strength, agility, reflexes - baby, you got _nothin_ ’.”

“Wow, what a guy.” Peter says dryly, rolling his eyes for good measure. “Insulting his date like this. You must _really_ like me.”

Wade stares at him head-on, and Peter has to blink at their intensity. His brown eyes are peering into Peter’s brain and he can’t _breathe_ , they're so mesmerizing.

“Spider-Baby, in the immortal words of Canada’s pop sweetheart,” Wade whispers softly, his face so close to Peter’s, they’re sharing a breath. “I really really _really_ really really _really_ like you.”

Wade flicks his eyes up to his and Peter nods, his jaw slack. Then Wade’s pressing his chapped lips against Peter’s, stealing his last breath and making him fly.

**Author's Note:**

> “Whoo!!” Wade exclaims, clapping in the dark room, his phone in his lap. “Yes! Off-screen sex - very tastefully, _very_ classy! Very 90’s Nora Ephron!”
> 
> “Wade, who're you talking to?” mumbles Peter sleepily. He turns over and looks at him bleary-eyed, brown hair mussed like someone’s - _Wade’s_ \- fingers have been running through it. Hearts dance above Wade’s head and his tongue wants to roll out of his mouth at the sight. _God, just look at those adorable brown eyes - like a widdle doe’s. That button nose! Those cheeks! Makes you wanna pinch them, doesn’t it?_
> 
> “The fangirls, sweetheart,” Wade says on a sigh, putting his phone down on the nightstand and curling up tighter to his boyfriend. _Boyfriend! He wants to scream it from the rooftops: Peter Parker is my boyfriend!!!_ “Just giving them what they want.”
> 
> “Hmm, and what’s that?” asks Peter muzzily, nestling closer into Wade’s chest. Despite the fics out there, Wade loves receiving and loves it more being the bigger spoon.
> 
> “Oh,” Wade whispers, blowing a puff of air against his boyfriend’s neck. The shiver that he feels going down Peter’s spine is validating and makes Wade preen with pride. “Nothing much. Just assuring them that there’s gonna be a sexy sequel.”
> 
> “Mm, good,” mumbles Peter before he’s fast asleep.
> 
> _Oh yeah, it’s gonna be_ good.
> 
> "Don't forget to kudos and comment," Wade whispers into his boyfriend's shoulder. "It's validation for the author that you liked her work and you want another one - and you _do_ want another one, don't you?"
> 
> "Wade, go to sleep," Peter commands, his voice going dark. _Ooh._
> 
> "Yes pumpkin."


End file.
